


Kisses are Extra

by lonniek



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Christmas Fluff, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 11:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5583880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonniek/pseuds/lonniek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>S. Stilinski always comes in at 5:29 in the morning for his coffee, like clockwork. What happens as feelings brew between coffee orders and small talk?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kisses are Extra

**Author's Note:**

> Here's my fic for the Sciles Secret Santa Exchange! Ho ho ho!

Scott turns over the ‘open’ sign for Warm Hearth Coffee House at 4:30 every morning, greeted with the same quiet clack of the ornately crafted wooden sign against the glass of the door. He turns and surveys the empty coffee shop, puts his hands on his hips, and sighs, then starts his routine for the day.

The first customers usually come in between 5:00 and 5:15. It’s a small buzz of business people and other retail workers who have to be up just as early as he is. He greets them all with the same fervor, the same eager smile as his eyebrows rise up into the edges of where his hair is getting long and floppy. Each ‘good morning’ and ‘have a good day’ is genuine. People ask him how he does it, but Scott just shrugs good-naturedly and says that he likes mornings and he likes making people happy.

Everyone seems to love him. Everyone, that is, except for an S. Stilinski. S comes in every morning, save Sundays, at 5:29 on the dot. Scott could set his watch by him: whether he’s in the back checking on the pastry delivery or wiping down the counters, when 5:29 hits, the chime over the shop door jingles, and in he comes.

Granted, sometimes Scott thinks this S is more caffeine-fueled zombie than person. Every day, S struggles up to the counter, one foot dragging in front of the other, rubbing away the final traces of sleep from his eyes with the sleeves of a hoodie that’s just a hair too big for him and wishing for all the world that he could still be asleep. Every day, Scott listens to S recite the same nine words in the same monotone as always, and today is no different.

“Good morning,” Scott chirps as the door opens. Scott starts to ring up the order as the barest hint of awareness comes over the other man.

“Large triple shot red eye, pump of hazelnut please,” S mumbles, fumbling into his pockets for his wallet.

“That’ll be $4.15.” It’s always $4.15. Scott watches him retrieve the battered leather wallet with fingers that are surprisingly graceful for how non-verbal he is in the morning, and pull out a credit card. It’s the same card that Scott has touched. The raised _S. Stillinski_ on the bottom of the card is familiar under the ridges of Scott’s fingertips, and he swipes the card quickly, prints off the receipt, and hands it back.

S meanders down to the bar, leans against the corner with his head against the glass and his mouth parted so that Scott can never really tell whether or not he’s sleeping with his eyes open. S doesn’t make eye contact with Scott until the very end of their encounter. Scott calls out the red eye, and S is there to take it from his hands before he’s had a chance to set it down on the bar.

“Thank you,” he says, and it’s just as monotonous as the rest of his order, but that he manages to utter two words that most people seem to forget exist, Scott gives him a pass. Plus, S always comes in looking tired and weary and just a little frustrated with the world. It’s the same pinched expression Scott’s mom wears when she wishes she could have slept for just another twenty minutes before her shift.

Scott thinks about S. Stilinski for a good portion of his nine hour shift.

* * *

 

Stiles has been fawning over the Warm Hearth barista for at least the last six months of the year. It starts when he lets slip over text message that the guy who serves him in the morning always smiles, even though he doesn’t know how to form real sentences until at least halfway through his coffee. He only just manages to get from his apartment to the coffee shop, and by the time he’s supposed to chirp his order, Stiles is pretty much asleep again.

It’s a shame, too. Scott, so says his name tag, is actually really cute. He’s floppy and a little scruffy and reminds Stiles of what it might look like if angels were real. He’s got a bright cherub face and a loving smile that Scott always turns on him when he passes off his drink in the morning. It’s the closest they come to holding hands, and on the instances where their fingertips touch during the exchange, Stiles leaves the shop electrified, and then he’s too nervous to say something for fear of screwing up what’s supposed to come out of his mouth.

_U should just write him a love letter and bring it in one morning_ , Cora suggests over their group chat. Stiles reads the message in his lap on the train and scoffs, offended that she would suggest something so heinous. But then her next suggestion is to shave Scott’s name into his pubes, and he’s questions why he lets her participate in the group chat at all. But it’s all with love. The Hale family, Talia especially, played an important part in Stiles’ life, especially after his mother had passed. While Stiles hated the world, Derek and Laura shielded him, Cora made him laugh, and Talia hovered, being a mother figure without trying to replace his mom. He’s grateful to them for everything, but the incessant teasing over his newest crush is irritating at best.

Derek and Cora are the worst of the instigators after that. They hound him about saying something, competing with each other to come up with cheesier and more over the top ways for Stiles to profess his love.

After a few weeks, Stiles simply takes to copying and pasting _I h8 u both_ into more than half of their conversations.

It’s not until Stiles’ shift changes at work that his infatuation becomes obvious enough that he decides he has to do something about it. Stiles gets a promotion in his office, gets a raise and doesn’t have to come in quite so early. But he can’t quite bring himself to start coming in later. _What if there’s a line?_ he texts Laura one night. He’s already in bed, trying to decide if tomorrow is going to be different. Cora and Derek have devolved into laughter in the group chat while they tell Stiles he should make signs and hang them in the shop. At one point, Cora threatens to ask out Scott for Stiles if he doesn’t hurry up and do something about it.

_If you like him, why don’t you say something? The way you talk about him makes him seem like he would @ least try to talk to you back._

_He doesn’t even know my name!_ Stiles sighs and plugs his phone in for the night. He knows Laura’s right, knows that he should go in, in the middle of the day and see if Scott’s there. But then it means that Stiles really has to admit that he’s become absolutely besotted with Scott’s doe eyes and earnest smile.

_All I’m saying is you’re literally losing sleep to see him in the morning. That’s gotta mean something._ Stiles wakes up to this text message and groans, throws his pillow across the room and whines into his mattress. He hates it when Laura’s right.

Throughout the day, Stiles scrolls through the various suggestions that Derek and Cora have posted in jest in the group chat. A bunch of them are related to movies, and he passes those by with a laugh and an eye roll, but when he scrolls by Cora telling him to just make signs and put them up in the shop, an idea starts to form. At lunch, he calls Derek to let him in on his plan. At first, Derek laughs, but the longer Stiles talks, the less Derek laughs and the more he’s convinced that Stiles has completely lost it.

“Still, though,” Stiles says, breathless as the last of his plan comes together. “You have to admit it’s pretty cool.” Derek can’t exactly disagree.

When morning rolls around, Stiles is nervous and jittery and probably shouldn’t have had the last Rockstar because he’s pretty sure he can smell his own heartbeat, but staying up all night means that he’s still mostly coherent. Derek, Laura, and Cora give him matching sleepy but excited thumbs-ups, and Stiles bursts through the door.

* * *

 

For the first time in almost a year, Scott’s pretty certain that S isn’t going to show up. 5:29 comes and goes, and Scott sees no sign that he’s getting ready to slog through the door. At 5:35, Scott stops toying with the paper cup that he’s already set aside. It’s got his phone number on it, and a smiley face, a bold move that Scott wishes he’s taken any time before now, before it was too late. Disappointment settles in his chest, and his next few greetings are a little more subdued. Another regular asks him if he’s okay. Scott smiles his big, toothy grin and promises that he’s just fine, apologizes for spacing out, and takes her order.

It’s 5:42 in the morning when the chimes on the door slam together. The door cracks against the hinges and stays wedged open, gusting nippy December air into the warmth of the coffee shop. Scott hears the door from in the back, straightens his apron, and puts on his customer face.

And then it’s him: it’s S. But it’s not _just_ him. He’s got...Scott looks at the background, where two people are holding a sign painted in neon colors on butcher paper. The handwriting is tight but neat, a little long and uneven, but sure and strong. “You wake me up, you make me feel alive. But you’re better than coffee: it’s on YOU that I thrive.” S’s face is bright and alert, something that Scott’s never seen before.

“Um,” Scott says, smoothing the front of his apron and gesturing at the ruckus. His face is bright pink, but the butterflies in his chest aren’t necessarily a bad thing.

“Look,” Stiles starts, and Cora squeals from behind the sign, dancing around her brother and sister with a sign of her own that says “he’s only grumpy in the morning, we promise.” Stiles glares at her mid-spin and waves his arms around, mouthing _are you serious right now_ until she clears her throat and looks down at the ground, appropriately shamed.

“Look,” he tries again. “I know we’ve only ever exchanged the same eleven words for the past ten months, but I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you,” is what comes out. Stiles looks just as surprised as Scott does that it happens this way. Scott works his jaw, but nothing comes out, so instead he scratches his head and blows out a deep breath.

“What?” Scott manages to say. He thinks about the coffee cup sitting behind the counter, with his number on it, waiting. The same way that he’s had a coffee cup with his number waiting for the last two months, regardless of whether or not he threw it out every day, just a hair too shy to put himself out there like that.

“Nine weeks ago, they switched my shift to 7:00 instead of 6:30,” Stiles explains. “But I kept getting up at 5:00 because nobody’s ever here when I get in early, so I get to stare at you while you make my drink, and I promise that I have a lot of really cool thoughts about you and all of the ways in which you’ve invaded my dreams, but I’m literally incapable of coherent thought before either a massive amount of caffeine or 9:30 in the morning.”

Scott chuckles and a grin spreads slowly across his face. He reaches out from the register for the cup behind the bar and takes hold of it, careful not to crush it between his fingers. Stiles doesn’t notice for a minute, still rambling about how he’d really like it if he and Scott could maybe go out for dinner sometime and promising to be more talkative. It’s not until the boy holding the sign nudges Stiles in the back and hisses, “pay _attention_ , Stiles,” that he seems to get it.

“S-so,” Scott stammers, trying and failing to be casual. “What can I get for you this morning?” he asks. The red only gets deeper while Stiles turns around to flap his arms at the people behind him. The older woman rolls her eyes and gestures back at Scott, who looks down at the register like he’s not supposed to be seeing their silent conversation.

“Well,” Stiles says after a moment of internal deliberation. “Considering that I haven’t slept yet so that I could do this right, could I get a large triple shot red eye, pump of hazelnut, please? And also maybe a kiss, if you’re into that.” Scott’s flush turns a darker red and a goofy grin breaks out across his face, with too many teeth and no filter, and Stiles is tempted to take a picture of that exact smile so he can remember it forever. Instead, he digs into his pocket for his wallet.

“That’s $4.15, right?” Stiles asks. “For the coffee, at least.” He’s hopeful, bashful, a little anxious maybe, waiting.

“Coffee can be on the house today,” Scott says at last, and Stiles’ eyes light up. He points out his number on the bottom of the cup and sets it on the steamer so that it’s out of the way. He leans over the edge of the counter, one hand under his chin. With the way Stiles is looking at him right now, eager and excited and a little wild, Scott feels like he could conquer the world. “But kisses are extra.”

**Author's Note:**

> Join me on [tumblr](http://demigirlisaaclahey.tumblr.com)!


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